THEY
CAME
TO
PLAY
SKATE ROCK,
THE WEEKEND
Photos and Lyrics by Morizen Föche
Tim Kent of the Big Boys twanging his Texas style geetawr pickin at the On Broadway Skate Rock show
I thought it would be just routine, sure the crew and I at the mag had just
gone through a heavy deadline session for the June issue, and the heavy
finalization of the "SKATE ROCK" compilation tape. So, something like
organizing two nights of SKATE ROCK CHAOS (in the form of showcasing
eight of the nine bands on a mini-San Francisco Skate Rock tour. One night
the 29th of May at the Tool & Die and the next night at the On Broadway).
having several top pro skateboarders flown up here to attend the event,
housing, chauffering and babysitting a number of skaters, then photo-
graphing them at various local skatespots should be nothing to sweat at
But NO. Little did I know that burning a candle at so many ends would not
only strain my nerve endings, pallor my complexion, reduce my hours of
sleep, try my patience and totally undermine my personal, private life to the
point of no redemption.
Subsequently, not forseeing any of this, I sallied forth into what was to be
the longest and most trying weekend of my life.
You see, everyone has a cause. Something to live for, love by, skate for,
believe in and/or sing about. It so happens though, that I have these pas-
sions, some crude form of a love affair with the two things that (in some
cases most unfortunately) are about the most important things in my life.
Music (many kinds of music, H.C. Punk, Metal, Classical, even Country. In
this case though, I'm talking about rock 'n' roll, in probably its crudest and
most polished form) and skateboarding.
Sometimes, a lot of times, the two are seriously and magnetically
attracted to each other. Emotion, a serious yet hyperbolic emotion runs
rampant through the veins of a high percentage of the individuals involved,
when the two mediums are combined.
Volatile?
Yes.
Oh, I know what some of you are thinking. There is a conservative lot
amongst the readers, in which some might agree with thoughts along the
lines of "foolish or irresponsible youth."
But you see, in today's world, everybody in their own mind is technically
right under some accord. Basically it's "I'm right and you're right." It just
depends...
Today the world was spinning at just about the same speed that it always
does except when the "Middle East Nations" line up with the moon just
right. Then there is a certain stammer in the perpetual motion. In fact, just
yesterday, Coalinga, Ca., got earthquaked.
But there were other rumblings in the atmosphere. Today, a man whose
personal company had just went public as a new major computer co.com-
petitor, shortened his life suddenly in an unfortunate automobile accident.
It was today that he learned that he had become a millionaire from the co.'s
stock market return on its first day on the boards. Another tragedy of life.
Boards, a tune, a sound, a snap, a bark of a grind, a rhythmic flow of
motion with glancing impact or trajection on the correct heart beat. The
connection? What is the connection? Why does adrenalin flow through the
veins, when it periodically does? Adrenalin is a hard thing to describe.
Some have never or rarely experienced the exhilaration of the adrenalin
O.D.
This achievement can easily be reached when you do a frontside no-
hands micro-edger, and your back foot pops off on re-entry, but you
miraculously regain control just before searing through the transition. The
heart almost comes right up your throat and the scrotum wants to tighten
up into nothing. The same heights are also readily reached when one's
favorite song gets played by one's favorite band as you pump your fist,
snap your finger, stomp your boot, smack your chair, bounce your head or
tap your fingertips on a table top. The band on stage is real. The sound is
real. Coping is real, and energy is real. It's sublime. There are no contradic-
tions to this fact.
The rain has been gone now for over two weeks and it was really hot this
Saturday morning. I was regaining some badly needed energy at the house
of a special friend as I was finalizing my plans for the weekend that lay
screaming before me, begging to be unleashed, directed and then under-
stood for what it was but not necessarily accepted.
The result of seven digits being punched into a common communication
device yielded the following information. At my house were no less than
eight over-hyped teenage maniac skateboarders. Details were vague, but
it appears that the squad whose number included the unhamessable likes
Christan Hosoa mid-ar take over Joe s channel Grit Photo
of Lance Mountain, his buddy Steve, Bill Ruff, a much wilder Christ Hosol,
Rob Roskopp (the man with the delicate touch of a rhinoceros), Steve
Caballero of the orange hair (but he wants to be a natural blond). The
Creator himself Mike Chantry guru of the M.H.R. and his friend Keith fully
involved themselves in a near all night session at the Chinatown banks out
beneath the gaze of the luminous Chinatown Holiday Inn. Excellent.
The monsters were still stunned and in a daze. They were in a rare dor-
mant stage. A period to regroup a second wind (the first "second wind" of
about three that were to be sporadically spaced across the next four or five
days. My only disadvantage in matters along the lines of physical and men-
tal rest was the cold fact of reality that their period of rest rarely coincided
with my few moments of free time). I could now easily filter in amongst
them. All I had to do is yell and laugh real loud, open and close cabinets and
drawers loudly; kick around a stupid little leather ball (called a "Hacky-
Sack") in the living room and make several rolls of toilet paper disappear.
Everything just like they do and they wouldn't even know I was there. Just
blend in.
The first call of order was a rhino-charging session at the hottest skate
spot to date in the Bay Area. JOE'S RAMP. Yessiree ladies and gentle-
men, Joe's Ramp. And it's not the old Joe's Ramp that you might
remember from a short while back, but it's a new improved Joe's Ramp.
The transitions have been improved. A roll-in channel has been added
along with four more feet of width, making it now 20 ft. wide and 10 ft. tall.
The "Coup de Coup" was the tender and thoughtful application of masonite
over the layers of plywood.
The immediate response of the over-experienced visiting contingency of
pros and such was to surpass by far, the simple feelings of physical exhil
aration. The new surface was unbelievable. The 15-year-old Christian
Hosoi rolled in and flew high above the opposing wall, dismounting in mid-
flight, he agilely landed on the roll-out deck. His eyes were wide (for a
change) and youthful astonishment covered his face. "This ramp is fast."
He managed to say.
And so it was, the ramp is fast.
The riders gave themselves towards wrecklessness. It was a hectic
sight, but no one was complaining. What is happening today, here and
many places around the world, is magic. Fluidity style and radical aggres
sion is not just common, it's rampant
You give a skater of such a high calibre as you find in your Ruff's,
Hosoi's, Caballero's, Lopes's, etc., a seemingly limited area to skate and
he proceeds to transcend all seemingly simple minded boundaries that
have been preconceived by limited and sometimes logical personalities.
Fear? The word, the emotion. Fear is the expectation of danger. The
level at which this unpleasant emotion kicks in is relatively the same in
most individuals. It is rare that the common person puts life, limb and per-
sonal welfare out on the razor's edge. In the full-fledged ranks of the
SKATE CORP., fear is all but forgotten. Put aside. Shelved. Erased from
normal reaction tracks. So it's the witnesses of their feats, that are left with
the duty to fear for them.
Billy was shredding an intensified line but injured a limb in a failed "Gay
Twist (who really named that move?) attempt. He was forced to halt his
vertical activities for the day.
Christian was just getting crazily and unnaturally out of the box. He was
perfecting air-fakies over the channel. They were nearly eye-level, and I'm
5'10". All of his airs were high. Everyone's airs were high. The Lebanese
Middle-Eastern burger I had for lunch was dancing a folk dance in my
stomach. The kickings made a bad gas. Too much pressure, I needed a
beer, something to relieve the disease. Maybe it was AIDS, I ain't no...
I crawled up the ladder on one end of the ramp and began to eye poten-
tial camera angles. Then it happened. It was uncomfortable. Joe was kind
enough to point out the head. Never force a fart when your stomach's been
acting strange, or when you've eaten strange stuff. Believe me.
Steve Caballero, on the wall opposite the channel, was flying his airs up
into an overhanging tree. Lance's riding insanity simply got out of hand. He
proved this by successfully executing frontside channel plants. They were
really pushing those limits. In fact, they continued to destroy the idea of
limits in skateboarding. Limits no longer exist.
It was a rad, full day. Back at the house, the skate rodents were stuck in
overdrive.
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